There was no knight in shining armor to get rid of a fire breathing dragon. There was no princess locked away in tower, not being able to fight. There was no master in disguise, being able to rick his way around everything. There was no king or queen, planning to marry their daughter away to an evil man…like parents would do that anyway. This isn’t that kind of fairytale.

There is a girl who is like a dragon, who can turn into the tiniest of flame, but burn down his world. Her sword was the color of fire, and she could melt anyone’s heart.

He was different; he was the different kind of master in disguise. He wasn’t up for her little bag of tricks; he had his own, his own way of burning down the enemy’s world. He was sly, he was hidden, he was a warrior, just the kind you wouldn’t except to be one.

They both shared something though, something that made battles difficult something that held them back from winning the war. Something that held their fate and as that something still grows inside it becomes harder to win the war.

Fire was blazing around her legs, around her arms, around her hair. She wasn’t burning, she wasn’t drifting away; she was fire. “Missed me?” she questioned, her fireball thrown right at him. She was fast, faster than dying, faster than falling, faster than a trigger in your heart, but he was faster.

Water covered him. She couldn’t reach. The fireball bounced off, causing the bubble to fall apart, but not enough to hurt him. “Not as much as you’d think,” he replied, smiling smugly. He grinned to himself, sexy as she was they would forever be at odds, which maybe was best, because both were sore losers.

Not this time. Not this time, she thought. No, this time she would keep a poker face; this time she would let go of all emotions, and do what she was better at creating a different sort of fire. This time she wouldn’t let him win, which was basically never considering they were both dead, only to be brought back to life by another’s findings, another’s power.

He was never prepared for her kind of fire. He watched as fire died out around her legs and arms. He watched as the blaze left her hair, leaving a long tomato red hair instead, the kind that he longed to let his fingers brush through, but this, this was war.

“Let’s call it off,” she said, dropping her sword to the floor. It hit the stone with a thud, a clank, a loud noise that rang through his ears, one that he couldn’t focus on. Damn, what was wrong with him. Focus,he told himself, focus.

“You’re playing me, aren’t you?” he asked, holding up his sword. “Not this time.”

Her fingers reached out a lowered his sword; she raised her eyebrows, with a look of innocence. “Why not? You trust me, don’t you? I’m the only you can trust.”

She mentally patted herself on the back. The act was well delivered; the emotions were gone; she was on the tippet-top of destroying him once and for all. Victory would be hers.

“Then let’s play my way,” he said, and before she could even blink, he had tied her hands behind her back. “I always seem to win when we play my way.”

She had to give him some credit. He did do that very well, and now she was stuck, stuck with only a couple more seconds until she reached the bitter end of her lost victory. Or was he going to play it out? Either way, she needed a plan and she needed it now.

His green eyes weren’t helping; all they seemed to do was put out her fire.

He’s more than pleased. Her loss, no backup plan. That always seemed to be her downfall, never planning for what could happen, just going out, full fire. He wasn’t the world’s best planner either come to think of it while she could think on the spot. He needed details; that was his downfall.

The sword. She didn’t smile. She pretended to look confused, she held back, did nothing, except break free…The world seemed to be going two thousand miles per hour.

On her feet, sword in her hand, the world was flickering like a flame. One minute her sword was against his neck, the next it was against hers. Not even in a second the battle had begun, swords bashed against each other, dodging the aimed blows, trying to win the war. Was one of them stalling, was the other waiting?

“Take that, you bloody idiot!” cries Ginny, holding out her mother’s long knitting needle to Harry’s stomach. Glowing with sweat, she smiles, this time she doesn’t need a poker face. Victory would be hers. “Drop your sword.”

“I think you‘re cheating,” murmurs Harry as he drops his knitting needle on the floor. He lost. There was no other way to put it, but he knew the word cheating would get her all annoyed and it was funny to see.

Ginny glares at him, shaking her head trying to ignore his comment. “Just admit it. You lost, and once again, I won.”

“I won last game,” replies Harry, standing up now that the game is over. “In fact I won two out of three games.”

Ginny looks at her watch. They’ve been playing sword fights for five hours, and it was nearly time for her to get back to the burrow. Her mum didn’t care for it to much when she stayed till late at night. Ms. Weasley will always about things.

Ginny tries to glare at him, but she can’t help but smile just a bit. He is a marvelous sword fighter, not that she would ever admit it too him. And it’s nice to have someone to sword fight with again. Everyone else had abandoned the game.

“Next time we’re using wrapping paper,” says Ginny, for lack of a better comeback.

Harry smiles and puts his arms around her. “Tomorrow come over earlier so we can play for longer,” he whispers, his hand holding on to hers.

She nods, already excited for the next day, even though today hadn’t even ended. “Walk home with me?” she asks, smiling.

“Like I would miss it for the world,” says Harry, taking his jacket and her hand, as the both walked out the door off the “battlefield.”